


Memory

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: Redemption [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, and you thought YOUR in-laws were bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 19:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10445250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: Darth Vader lures Luke to him on Bespin. Han does not enjoy it one bit.





	

Memory

Darth Vader does not dream.

He does not seek his memories of the past, nor does he seek to envision a past that might have been, futures imagined by a younger man not yet focused, trained. He does not dwell on what has been, even after his prized battle station is destroyed, does not feel guilt or regret or resentment. He is in control of his emotions, of his thoughts. Unburdened by the weaknesses of lesser men.

But.

The disturbance in the Force ripples like sands shifting warily under the breathed threat of a coming sandstorm, brushing with an almost palpable touch against the edges of his consciousness as he meditates in his chambers, stretching across the murmur of the galaxy for the bright point of light he has sensed over the years since the destruction of the _Death Star,_ the threat of which his master spoke so greedily, so carelessly. _The offspring of Anakin Skywalker,_ he’d said. A _son._ Sensitive to the Force, and powerful in it, more powerful than many of the Jedi Vader himself cut down, decades before. Hidden away now, unnaturally silent despite Vader’s probing. Waiting. Calculating his next strike, perhaps, foolishly empowered by the small victories he and his rebellion have tasted over the years.

Vader flexes his right hand and muses on strategies of his own, time-tested and effective against even the savviest of warriors.

The rebellion began as little more than skirmishes with groups allied through more than just political ideology or economic benefit, and grew into clusters of friends grown bold enough to confront Imperial forces stretched thin enough to present a fair fight. The cause is personal, to them, which means that chances are good that Skywalker will have formed close bonds with his fellow rebels, very likely with the Alderaani rebel princess he risked his neck to rescue years before and apparently followed across the galaxy after, his presence with her on the frozen planet of Hoth unmistakable and unshielded, obvious once Vader knew what he was sensing. As vibrant as the suns of Tatooine, stark as its absence now from Vader’s careful searching.

The princess will be the key, he thinks. The perfect bait to lure the boy to him, leverage to get him to listen, to hear _reason,_ counterpoint to the indoctrination he’s no doubt been fed over his formative years. She will be easy enough to capture, Vader muses, given her companionship with the smuggler who carries a price on his head large enough to draw the attention of more than a few bounty hunters, a despicable collection of riff-raff Vader trusts no more than he trusts the smuggler himself, but whose greed, radiating from them like the stinking rot of death and misery, will lead him to his quarry faster than any other means could do.

Which the most reprehensible of the lot _does_ manage, though it takes him _months,_ longer than Vader finds he’s able to wait patiently, for all that he’s trained his mind to demonstrate exceptional restraint and control when called upon to do so. Months of skirmishes and strategy and a few weak victories dimmed beside rebel success, no military upsets but far too many evasions, the frustration mounting just among the men on Vader’s _Star Destroyer_ enough to tinge even his deepest meditations deep red, shortening his temper in a manner thoroughly unbeneficial to all around him.

He finds himself uncharacteristically eager as he threatens the fancy man running Cloud City into bringing the princess and her smuggler to him, hand-delivering the pair with a devastating sense of self-loathing and betrayal flowing around him like his frankly ridiculous cloak. The princess is as headstrong and defiant as ever, facing Vader with surprise that corrodes immediately into hatred. The smuggler demonstrates considerably less control, animal fear rising from him even as he pulls his weapon from his belt and fires, stupid and panicked and easier to imprison because of it. His fear all but splits him open, his vulnerability on full display, shining like a beacon, the princess’s protective response to his terror surprising, not at all what Vader expected to sense from her.

She’s the wrong choice for the Interrogator, then, Vader muses as he commandeers what passes for a holding cell for his ‘troopers to set up the Interrogator and run it through its setup sequence, ensuring that it will perform as intended. Too angry and vindictive, too focused on protecting those around her -- and likely Skywalker as well, once he enters the equation. And she’s familiar with the Interrogator already, albeit with its smaller, less powerful mobile model. Familiar enough that her fear will be tempered by experience, more focused on the physical disorientation and agony she’s survived before, less on the unknown, the anticipation of greater suffering, allowing her to allocate her mental resources to resisting him as she did on the Death Star, planning her own survival, her escape.

“Separate the prisoners,” Vader orders the captain of his ‘trooper battalion, standing just outside the holding cell containing the princess, the smuggler, and the wookiee, the door thin enough that he’s relatively confident that his words will be audible on the opposite side. “I will interrogate Captain Solo first. Should he not survive, I will call for the others.”

He can _feel_ the princess’s reaction to his words, her emotions striking him more deeply and intimately than he’s felt anything in decades, the rush of rejection and terror tinged thickly with hatred as deep as any Vader has ever sensed from another sentient or even felt himself, fragments of her imagination blending into his consciousness, the princess’s meditations on how she would kill him more detailed and creative than he would have expected.

Just as useless as bait for Skywalker as he’d anticipated she would be, then, but strong and resilient enough to keep her alive, as he did on the _Death Star,_ further purpose for someone of her fortitude possible in the future. He stands by, reaching for any sign of Skywalker’s presence while his ‘troopers argue Solo into the Interrogator and strap him in, pushing away his sense of Solo’s terror without effort and dimming his sense of the princess’s rage with a moment’s concentration, the power of her presence frustratingly difficult to push aside. He can feel the city’s proprietor nearby, steeping still in self-loathing and desperation. The fury from the wookiee, vibrant with intent and confidence likely born of past success rescuing Solo from incarceration. The muted hum of the thousands of sentients in the city, some aware that something unusual is happening but not especially frightened by it, the vast majority moving about in ignorance.

He waits as long as he can, struggling to remove himself from the princess’s mounting fury and Solo’s terrified suffering. Waits for Skywalker to show himself, like beams of sunlight cutting through a dense cloud.

Nothing.

And no benefit apparent in waiting longer, he muses as he rises and returns to Solo’s holding cell, observing the effect the Interrogator has had on the man, Solo’s shirt damp with sweat, his eyes dilated and unfocused, mouth open on labored breaths. As vulnerable and receptive as any sentient can be, recoiling weakly when Vader draws close, standing at his side more out of the desire to intimidate than out of necessity.

“Show me what you know,” he says, stretching out his hand and drawing a deep breath, focusing. Seeking in Solo’s mind the brightness he’s sought through the Force, the presence so frustratingly concealed from him.

He sees.

The sparks and smoke of battle, an X-wing tearing through the shadowed angles of the _Death Star,_ memory of blue eyes and heartbreak and fear coming up like a wave of nausea in the seconds preceding the confirmation of a hit, the shockwave rippling through metal and muscle and bone, reverberating still under the pounding heartbeat of running and grabbing and embracing, _I knew you’d come back!_ shrill and loud and earnest and so full of feeling it hurts like a blaster shot, the pain glorious, hoarded in Solo’s mind like a priceless treasure, radiating from him in a glow even the least trained Jedi could _surely_ sense.

He latches onto that pain and feels Solo’s mind buckle a little under the pressure, a different memory rearing up like a defense mechanism, this one suffused with _actual_ physical agony, red and dark and clotted with ripped skin and exposed nerves, even white teeth clenched in an expression of bravery falsely draped over fear and hurt, youthful enthusiasm dirtied under the strain of fighting and hiding and losing. The ebb of adrenaline allows for the influx of other emotions in Solo’s memory, chief among them weariness, exhaustion. A creeping sense of defeat tempered only by the cold fury burning in blue eyes gone slate in the dim light of a hideout, the familiar touch of Skywalker’s hands turned rough with urgency, his knowledge of tending wounds effective and sure in a way unfamiliar but welcome, demonstrating unexpected skill and knowledge. The memory blurs under the introduction of a synthetic analgesic into Solo’s system, woven through with the artificial color and light and sound of gaps filled in with fantasy: unexpected strength in the arm wrapped around his waist, beautiful accuracy in the shots fired from a blaster. The pale blue glow of a lightsaber, wielded with inexperience and blind, desperate trust, the physical manifestation of the determination to keep Solo safe, to protect him.

 _Yes,_ Vader thinks, pushing at the memory, bruising its fragile edges. _Reach out for that strength. You need that protection yet again. The salvation from danger. Call out for it, and he will hear you._

He pushes and the memory shifts, darkens: a night sky heavy with clouds and trees, tension thick in muscles poised for fight or flight, the hard edges of a blaster gripped tightly in Solo’s hand. Footsteps and a quietly murmured _Han it’s me_ aborting the twitch of motion intended as prelude to a lethal shot, a gust of breath sighed with a mix of relief and annoyance, a half-smile answering the grumbled _you tryin’ to get shot or somethin’?,_ teasing and warning twined together in discord. _I trust you,_ offered simply, honestly, sincerity rich in the steady gaze broken only by the drip of rainwater compelling a startled blink and a breath of quiet humor, Skywalker’s hand stretched out, far enough for the cuff of his sleeve to pull tight around his forearm, rain dripping between his long, clever fingers. _Never imagined anything like this back home_ murmured almost too softly to be heard, the tone of it pulling a tide of affection and possessiveness so strong that it _aches,_ even in memory, the physical reverberation of it bleeding into the gentler memory of touch, of skin bared scant hours later to the artificial light of a rented room, Skywalker’s arms and shoulders rough with gooseflesh under Solo’s fingers, the sun-warmed golden hue dulled pale from months spent away from the warmth of the sun, sallowness going pink under the friction of a cheap towel.

Solo groans, low and ragged, the sound echoing dully in the close confines of the room, and where it’s little more than another detail to be slotted away in the well-trained and controlled structures of Vader’s mind, it catches and holds the attention of the ‘trooper on duty, eagerness to see the prisoner fall apart under the attentions of the infamous Sith lord sizzling like hot oil under the surface of Vader’s concentration. An annoyance more than a distraction, but unpleasant all the same, and unnecessary; the negative side-effect of the personalities present despite the uniformity he’d expected from the clone program. Vader spares Solo from his attentions long enough to focus on the ‘trooper, to dismiss him from the room, taking the opportunity to spare a glance at the gauges and measures on the Interrogator as he does, Solo’s vitals all well within acceptable range, his body sure to withstand a prolonged session, however long it takes for Skywalker to notice his friend’s plight and come to his aid.

“Wha’d’you want,” Solo slurs, nausea barely contained behind each syllable. “Jus’ tell me what you _want.”_

A bluff, intended to illuminate any cracks in his captor’s resolve, weakness openly displayed in attempt to earn pity or lenience or a premature sense of victory, anything that might open the opportunity for escape or respite or deceit. A common practice among bottom-feeders of Solo’s ilk, though more refined than the majority Vader has encountered over his lifetime. Practiced. More proficient than Vader would have expected from a man as drugged and miserable as Solo _must_ be, for all that it will earn him no benefit in the face of the power of the Force.

“Information,” Vader tells him, pressing a lever forward that does little more than vent gas from the base of the Interrogator, a cheap trick of his own, but it’s gratifying all the same to see Solo flinch at the sound, expecting pain, bracing for it. Braver than most, Vader is willing to concede, but stupid, deeply stupid, his attentions focused so acutely on resisting anticipated physical suffering that the rest of his mind is left unguarded, wide open. Practically _begging_ for the invasion Vader doesn’t hesitate to provide.

He pushes, determined to keep the connection live and breathing, pungent enough that even the least sensitive Force user would notice it. He finds a recollection guarded jealously in Solo’s heart, clearly what the man’s mind has associated with the notion of _information:_ Sunlight glinting off of blonde hair gone fluffy in the humidity around them, breeze and sunshine breathed like a blessing after long days spent in stale recycled air, wrapped in the streaks of stars in hyperspace. Skywalker’s grin, wide and kind of crooked, a bit goofy but painfully welcome after its long absence in long silences stretched thin over the descent from wild victory into the cold of reality, of loss not put into words but felt keenly all the same. _These were my favorite as a child_ \-- words heard and hoarded, gilded in memory brighter than the recollection of the succulent plant cupped in Skywalker’s calloused hand, the hazy memory of the street-side stall just beyond. A curl of wicked pleasure suffuses too the memory of the sweet juice of the plant, offered as an actual taste but stolen in a kiss instead, blue eyes bright with an awkward fondness. A moment of fumbling followed by a repeated offer to share the precious treat, accepted this time as it was intended to be accepted, but little more than a vague sense of the plant’s flavor remains in Solo’s mind, a footnote at best beneath the memory of sun-warmed linen rough through the fabric of Solo’s shirt as he slung his arms across Skywalker’s shoulders, of hips bumping with asynchronous steps, closeness and safety and trust and brotherhood breathing as close as the air around them.

 _Han_ whispers across Vader’s senses, strangled with emotion coming neither from the princess in her cell, nor from the man bound before him, sweating and drooling and shaking in a display of human fragility, but from Skywalker himself, his presence burning into sudden brilliance like a newborn star, reaching out, searching. Vader dips into Solo’s mind one last time and pushes at the first memory he finds, confident that he needs little more than a burst of emotion from the smuggler to spring the trap he’s set. Solo groans and produces a richly bleeding memory, new still and raw for it, memory of a stark hospital bed and a drug-heavy smile, wounds healing but visible still, the quiet between them rich with the memory of blood and cold, of fear and desperation. The memory warms into a bright-spot surrounding another kiss, this one stolen in a heartbeat cresting adrenaline. Warm lips and bright blue eyes and the ache of saying goodbye, the desire to steal and protect and possess and defend at odds with self-preservation instinct and detachment, the resignation to turn his back on Skywalker, the young man looking up at him with earnest affection foreign and unsettling and tucked away for later or for never, cast aside like scrap and hoarded like treasure.

He feels Skywalker’s answering anxiety through the Force, bright like water coming through cracks in sandstone, too powerful for the shielding that has kept him hidden for weeks, _months._ There’s guilt and fear wound into the anxious desperation he can sense, a heavy burden of responsibility shirked, of weakness obeyed. Yoda’s work, Vader knows without doubt, the ancient relic of a Jedi powerful and resolute despite his ignorance, his boundless bias. Determined to keep Vader’s own son a secret from him, hidden away, shielded. Serving as a poetically awful mentor for the one Vader seeks to bring to his side, one more injury inflicted by the cursed brotherhood.

“Return the prisoner to his cell,” Vader orders the ‘trooper on duty outside the room when Skywalker’s presence doesn’t dim, the boy apparently resolved to come to the smuggler’s aid, no longer hiding himself in the slightest. “His purpose is served.”

The ‘trooper salutes dutifully, spitting orders for Solo to _shut up_ when Solo mumbles vague, baseless threats in Vader’s general direction as he’s all but carried from the room, his boot-heels dragging against the polished floor and head lolling helplessly against the ‘trooper’s armor. Vader puts the smuggler from his mind and focuses, reaching for the brightness in the Force once more, drawing it close to himself, projecting the feelings he pulled from Solo’s memories like a holo replaying a favorite message from a beloved family member, a beacon for Skywalker to follow. 

He isn’t made to wait long, Skywalker's agonizing desperation to rescue the princess and the smuggler as rich as blood through the Force, burning hot whenever Vader lowers his guard and lets it seep through, a distraction on which he strives not to dwell. And for all that Skywalker all but _runs_ into the trap set for him, he’s not a complete idiot, nor entirely untrained. His skills with his lightsaber speak to hours of practice, of interest devoted with boyish enthusiasm to the art of swordplay and the mastery thereof, the strength and grace of his movement speaking to the flavor of military discipline Vader has grown accustomed to seeing among rebels, weak and ineffective without the Force amplifying physical power. And there, Skywalker excels without thinking, his connection to the Force swelling like a tide as fear and anger well up in him, affection and concern for his friends igniting like fuel before flame as he fights, self-preservation tucked away like an afterthought, all but drowned out under the tide of determination illustrated in each strike of his ‘saber.

Greed flares in the pit of Vader’s stomach at the sight of him, the boy growing before his very eyes into a man, strong and proud and powerful, undaunted by the teachings of the Jedi who sought to tame him, to limit him. To castrate him as they did Anakin, decades before. “Join me,” he says, when Skywalker looks like he could use a minute to pant and sweat, making him as open as Vader suspects he’s going to be to listening to reason. “Join me and I will show you the power of the Dark Side.”

Petulance answers him, as powerful as a physical blow, but it’s brittle, fragile, covering curiosity and temptation like a torn cloth. There’s a chance, then, and a good one at that, that Skywalker can be turned, though not easily. Brought to the Dark Side and groomed into power exceeding even that of Vader himself. The last of the Jedi, standing at his side, bringing order to the galaxy, using the Force freely, not under the antiquated rules of the privileged few.

He focuses on demonstrating his superior power and control, gauging the young Jedi’s abilities through his responses, a fascinating combination of instinct and training, all at once creative and ineffective. Enough that binding Skywalker in carbonite is clearly still necessary for his transport to the Emperor for training, the likelihood of him escaping any lesser captivity (and damaging or killing himself in the process) too high for Vader to risk, for all that he suspects the imprisonment will do little to support his case and Skywalker’s inclination to accept him as a teacher and mentor. There’s nothing for it, though, no option available but to push forward, parrying Skywalker’s attacks with ease, corralling him onto one of the access ramps stretching into the core of the central tower. 

Skywalker's blood jumps with what Vader assumes is either a fear of heights or the realization that he’s trapped when he reaches the end of the ramp and looks around, finding himself left with no option but to cling desperately to the vertical shaft and shout at Vader like the child he still is, all pretense of being the big strong Jedi knight falling away. What’s left behind is little more than a lonely, broken child, a boy torn between deep-seated hatred and the instinctive fear he feels in the face of an opponent he can’t possibly hope to overpower or outsmart or even escape, and where the dominant emotion Vader can sense just beneath the surface of his own control is that of victory, there is also pity, a sense of empathy he’s not sensed since --

 _Padme._ Vader stops, taking in the sight of the boy before him, Luke’s expressive face and fearless determination so like that of his mother that, for only a moment, Anakin finds himself breathless with it, his relation to the young man staring up at him elevated from title to reality in a surge of power as thick and rich as blood.

“Don’t make me destroy you,” he says. regaining enough control over his emotions that his words carry the weight of a very real threat, fear spiking in Luke’s heart, his grip on the vertical shaft tightening in response. “Luke,” he says, the name strange on his tongue, for all that it was the first name Padme had suggested, should their child be male. “You do not yet realize your importance; you've only begun to discover your power.”

Power that, as close as he is to Luke, with Luke’s control as tattered as it is, he can tell _far_ exceeds his own and without doubt rivals that of the Emperor. Greed winds through him, braided thick around the desire to keep his son for himself, as far from the Emperor’s grasp as possible. “Join me, and I will complete your training. With our combined strength, we can end this destructive conflict, and bring order to the galaxy.”

Luke shakes his head, a trickle of sweat splashing down onto the wound glowing angry red on his cheekbone, diluting blood just starting to clot. “I’ll _never_ join you,” he says, his voice rough and wobbling a little. Weakened from his desperate journey across the stars, from the exertion of fighting with his full strength. He’s likely desperate enough to hear reason, Vader thinks, drawing up his control like a deep breath.

“If only you knew the power of the Dark Side,” he says, bitterness seeping into his tone despite his best efforts to quash it, decades-old resentment at the unbalanced teachings of his former masters gaining strength at the sight of his son before him, not yet ruined by their brainwashing. “Obi-wan never told you about your father--”

“He told me enough,” Luke spits, heartbreak tinting his words, newer and rawer than Vader is expecting. “He told me _you_ killed him.”

Obi-wan is dead and gone, destroyed at Vader’s own hands, no longer able to inflict his damage on Vader or Skywalker or anyone else, but anger and betrayal fill Vader’s thoughts all the same at his son’s words, old fury renewed at the man who has filled his son’s mind with poisonous lies. “No,” he says, dropping his shields, assaulting Luke with the full force of his presence, the stark honesty of it more than he expects the boy will be able to process, but necessary as he says: _“I_ am your father.”

Luke’s reaction is immediate and powerful, pushing like a physical strike against Vader’s mind, the terror and anger and disgust wrapped around conflicted rejection and recognition tearing to shreds what remained of the boy’s control, the raw display of his potential staggering, far greater even than Vader had estimated. He tells this to Luke, counting on pride and curiosity and desire to win him at least _some_ bargaining room, but Luke surprises him yet again, his lack of training allowing Vader to sense every emotion that cuts through him like shards of broken glass: morbid curiosity, recognition, confirmation; acceptance, heartbreak. Disgust. Despair. Surrender, both to the truth and to the inevitable solution, and where Vader has seen countless horrors over the artificially long years of his life, he keenly feels the pain of watching his son let go and fall, fully intending to die, calm in the certainty that his death is the only option available to him to spare himself and the wide galaxy from the truth.

Vader guides him as he falls, a selfish whim based more in emotion than rational thought or strategy, the physical agony of Luke’s injuries enhanced as he clings with animal instinct to the metal supports hard and rickety under the weight of his body. He can feel Luke reaching out through the Force, as clear and pungent as it was as the young man raced across the stars, feels him reaching for the princess, just as desperate for her strength and resilience as Vader had assumed he would be when he selected her as bait, months before.

Her response is an unexpected surprise; faint, barely more than a whisper at the back of Vader’s mind, but it’s there, undeniably, steady and unwavering, as though her spirit were tied to Luke’s, the brightness of their reunion as she comes to his rescue fascinating, another curiosity Vader tucks away to contemplate, secreted away beneath the persistent ache in his chest. He retreats to his ship, pulling at his control, returning without terrible difficulty to the long-established role he plays for the Empire of the cold, emotionless power, the hand stretching out from the Emperor’s vast power.

Time will be his ally in this game, he muses as he leads his battalion off of Bespin, for all that he feels an uncharacteristic impatience to see the seed planted bear fruit. A man of Skywalker’s power, freed of the restraints placed on him by the foolish Jedi hiding like vermin beneath the grand shadow of the Empire, could do incredible things. And he _will_ do incredible things, Vader thinks, standing at his father’s side, taking his rightful place in the galaxy.

All they must do now is wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s musings:

Dad’s side of things, this time. Anakin, this is why no one likes you. (Who am I kidding, he’s got a fanbase the size of the Outer Rim, the bastard.)

This bullshit came about one afternoon in early January while I was heating up my lunch and musing on the idea of Luke getting all excited over finding a succulent plant at a streetside market and offering one to Han to taste, only to have Han surprise him by leaning in and tasting it on Luke’s mouth instead of just taking the damn treat and eating it like a normal person. The image of it was -- and is -- _so_ clear and detailed that I plunked my donkey down in a chair in the staff lounge instead of going back to my office, and wrote out that particular scene in Google docs on my mobile (which is _not_ the easiest way to write fiction, lemme tell ya) while mechanically shoveling soup into my face. A colleague came in before I managed much more than that scene and distracted me with _stressful work talk, this is why I don’t eat in the staff lounge, folks,_ but the scene stuck and bothered me badly enough that I came back to it again and again and again and now here we are with a full-fledged little short-story that fits into a larger AU universe, which is pretty cool.

At least, I think it is.

Semi-related: On the same day this story hit me, I created a bomb-ass resume and LinkedIn for a coworker (that landed her a bomb-ass job with a bomb-ass company, thank-you-very-much) and she paid me for my services with a delightful aloe plant _that I fully intend to eat,_ just as soon as I’ve nurtured it into creating little baby aloe plants for me to grow elsewhere and then eat later on. She was appropriately horrified when I informed her that the plant was destined for my mouth, and would probably be equally horrified to learn that it inspired not only fanfiction, but _Star Wars_ fanfiction, at that, because for whatever reason, she _hates Star Wars._ Thinks it’s stupid.

To which I say: Lay thine eyes upon the field in which I cultivate my fucks. Lo; thou shalt see that it is barren.

I have an absolute metric _fuckton_ of head-canon about Vader and Leia’s awful and complex relationship, but instead of rambling on and on about it here, I think I’ll save it because stars help me, I’m pretty sure more fiction of these two being all manner of dysfunctional is coming. Good times.

As always, I write this stuff in the hopes of hearing y’all’s thoughts and comments, so if you’ve got a musing, share it with me? Your friendly neighborhood shameless attention whore here rather likes that sort of thing.


End file.
